She was sure no one had ever been more in love than they were in those weeks, consumed by such longing, wanting to just be alive beside each other.

But what had really happened? It was still unclear. Was it possible nothing of any significance had ever happened between us and our ending was just the sad process of realizing this?

It was possible she might not have the right feeling after all, that she wasn't in love, wasn't in limerence, but was in some unnamed place alone.

But we always avoided talking about these things—difficult things—and I wondered if that meant we'd be a little uncomfortable with or disappointed by each other for the rest of our lives.

I knew that my husband was a song that I had forgotten the words to and I was a fuzzy photograph of someone he used to love.